


this is a trick

by ghostheart



Category: Bleach
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostheart/pseuds/ghostheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first bid for power comes full circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a trick

**Author's Note:**

> i really have no excuse. post-686. obviously the ending didn’t give me much to work with, so as far as timing and plausibility go...just roll with it? idk. this is so shitty and mostly self-gratifying haha
> 
> i cannot stress enough that this is noncon/dubcon. if you’re sensitive to that material, i urge you to pass along and pretend you never even saw this fic.
> 
> title is from the song "this is a trick" by crosses.

Momo Hinamori is happy.

(As happy as she _can_ be.)

She loves being Captain Hirako’s lieutenant. She loves her division. She loves her friends more than ever after they all nearly succumbed to the war long ago.

She loves who she is.

Even still, it took many, many years to reach this point, and she’s not fully where she wants to be. Her mind wanders to forbidden places on her slow days. Every now and then, she thinks she sees something, a familiar figure, and her heart seizes.

And the nightmares —

the nightmares will never end. She copes.

Hinamori is happy. But when she lies awake at night, the narrow path of mourning appears to her — and its endpoint is her grave.  


※

  
The sun sets on another day in the Seireitei.

Hinamori doesn’t have the opportunity to return to her quarters until well after darkness (and well after Captain Hirako has already retired, she thinks with a pout). She had been prepared to leave _several_ hours ago before her captain had unceremoniously dumped a thick stack of paperwork on her desk.

(“Sorry, forgot these were due tomorrow mornin’. Hope you didn’t have any plans t’night.”)

She didn’t, but that fact did little to assuage her irritation and, now, her exhaustion.

Hinamori saunters down the main corridor of the Fifth Division and unties her hair, letting it flow just past her shoulders. Her scalp is thanking her for the breath of fresh air.

She casts her eyes up to the sky; the moon is waning, inviting the stars to glisten around it.

_(Will there ever be a day where she doesn’t think of it?)_

No, her night will not end on that note. She won’t allow it.

With a sigh of relief and weariness, she opens the sliding door to her quarters and makes her way over to her inviting futon.

— Or, she would, if it weren’t for the presence of someone else’s reiatsu in the room.

She can’t identify who it is, strangely enough — as though that person were trying to conceal their presence.

“Show yourself,” she calls out tentatively. Her hand hovers just above Tobiume, although she’s hesitant to assume malice right away.

A shape moves in the shadow of the corner of the room —

and she would know it anywhere. Even in her sleep.

“So you’ve returned.”

He stays in the shadows, but the glimmer in his eye is unmistakable.

A gasp escapes her lips; her hand instinctually flies towards Tobiume. And yet, Hinamori cannot bring herself to draw her sword — not quite yet.

“You.”

(What was once a benediction has become a curse.)

He steps forward, revealing himself entirely.

“You seem surprised.” His lip curls upward in smug satisfaction.

“How...?”

He takes a step toward her; she bristles and takes a step back.

“Come now, Hinamori. I mean you no harm.”

She wraps her hand around the hilt of her zanpakutou, eyes narrowing (— she has to be strong, she has to try). “I’ll ask you again, _liar_. How?”

“You’ve always been a bright girl. I’m sure you can piece together the possibilities.”

Hinamori purses her lips, making every earnest attempt to dispatch the gelid grip of fear that’s crushing her. She still disbelieves her eyes — an apparition, a dream, she can’t classify what’s before her. She knew that this was going to happen the instant he voluntarily submitted himself to bondage and descended into Muken; if there’s one thing she has learned by now, it’s that nothing he does is ever as it seems. She just hadn’t anticipated it so soon.

And she certainly hadn’t anticipated it happening like _this_.

“I — I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you’re not going to succeed,” Hinamori spits, positioning herself to dash towards her captain’s quarters and opening her mouth to yell for him. She doesn’t trust herself, not like this—

and, in but a second, he’s behind her, a hand clamped firmly over her mouth and his arm wrapped around her waist.

“How hasty. You hardly allowed me to explain,” Aizen whispers lowly, his breath grazing her ear. He relaxes his hold over her mouth ever so slightly, and she takes advantage of the opening.

“I’m not interested.”

“You aren’t in a position to run to Hirako with your tail between your legs.” His grip on her tightens; her heart skips a beat. “With your history...who would believe you?”

She makes a perfunctory effort to pry herself away from his hold, but even she can admit that she’s no match for his own physical strength.

“I’m not like that anymore. Captain Hirako knows that. Everyone does.”

“I can assure you they have their doubts, and rightfully so. Can you honestly say they wouldn’t dismiss this as a dream or hallucination?”

Hinamori presses her lips into a thin line. She can’t say that she’s convinced that this isn’t a trick of her mind, either.

“You came here with a purpose,” she states.

“I simply yearned to see a familiar face.”

“Kill me. If that’s what you’re here for, just get it over with.” Her words are scathing, acerbic — foreign to her own ears. “Maybe it’ll work the third time.”

Hinamori can very nearly _feel_ Aizen’s momentary surprise and subsequent dismay before he regains his footing.

“So you’ve grown. Nevertheless...if I had come here to kill you, the deed would be done by now.”

“What have you come for?” she demands. Tobiume trembles at her hip.

He releases her slowly, and she jerks away from him. She can scarcely find the moxie to look him in the face, for she fears what will happen if she does.

Still, she looks ( _because she is strong_ ) and he is the image of dark intent roiling beneath a veneer of serenity.

“I’d like to talk with you. You won’t defy me.”

It’s a command, a prediction, and a warning, wrapped neatly into one taut, neutral statement.

She moves and he follows. He has her backed into the corner of the room next to the door away from potentially curious passersby, so close that he towers over her more than ever. The calm in his expression threatens her.

It’s been so long since she was this close to him. On that occasion, he tried to kill her.

She missed this.

His eye scans her, carefully taking her in from top to bottom.

“You’ve changed,” he notes. “You have neither the eyes nor the body of a naive girl.”

“Don’t you dare.” The warning sounds lackluster even to herself, and she curses herself for it.

“You’re certainly doing nothing to stop me.”

Aizen hooks a finger into her kosode as his visible eye trails up to meet hers.

“To think these are the same eyes that once looked at me so reverently,” he mutters with a sigh, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he sounded wistful.

“You can’t...”

“I can’t _what_?”

“You can’t do this to me,” she replies weakly.

“So long as you refuse to draw your sword, I can.”

He pulls her robe down deftly and exposes her to the humid air of the summer night.

“Surely there’s an explanation for why your words say one thing and your actions say another.”

He grazes her nipple with the tip of his finger, still clothed in his prisoner’s uniform.

“After all...if you abhor me to the extent you claim, this would’ve been over long ago.”

He pinches it, eliciting a whimper of pain.

“If there’s truly nothing left...”

Her flush of shame flows throughout her body; a chill of disgust hardens her nipples. She steals a glance at Tobiume. He isn’t binding her, not with kidou or anything else; she can reach for it. She can end this quickly.

She could scream. Captain Hirako would hear her. Everyone would. Nothing is stopping her.

She can end this. He’s daring her to do so; that’s why he has done nothing to restrict her.

“Just kill me,” Hinamori whispers harshly. “Kill me. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time like this...”

His expression remains the same — that of mild, impartial curiosity — as he pulls down the rest of her kosode, revealing her chest in its entirety.

“I never waste my time, Hinamori. You must know that better than anyone.”

“What you did to me — that wasn’t enough? You still haven’t had your fill?” she spits, fury bubbling in her chest. Try as she might, she can’t stop the tears from forming in the corner of her eyes.

Aizen regards her with mock rue. “So venomous.”

He straddles her leg and leans closer as he kneads her breasts and tweaks her nipples. She can smell him at this proximity and his scent is the same as it’s always been. It’s the same earthy, masculine scent that would intoxicate and entice her so many years ago. Memories of resting her head on his chest, enveloped in his haori — of surreptitiously slipping into his quarters in his absence and burying her face in his blankets, drinking in that smell and letting her myriad worries fade away — flood her mind’s eye.

She grits her teeth, battling the stifled visceral flame within her that still burns for him. She had long accepted that it would never fully die down — and yet, she could not have imagined that it would prove to be her undoing once more.

Her mind races as quickly as her heart; she can conceal nothing from him. When she thinks back, she never could.

“I’m sure you thought you were being discreet all those years ago,” he teases.

She must look confused because he continues after a pause.

“You would wait until you thought I’d long been asleep. You’d lie there, graze your fingers down your body—” (he slides a frigid gloved hand up her thigh) “—and call my name.”

“Stop!” she protests, much to Aizen’s ostensible pleasure. She squirms with humiliation at the recollection of those wretched nights, the memory of her all-consuming desire for a person who never existed.

“Your hand would rest here—” (he stops, placing his hand over her vulva, positioning his thumb over her clit) “—and you’d touch yourself until you would cum at the thought of me inside you.”

He starts rubbing circles around her clit, endlessly satisfied with himself as she fights against the moans of pleasure threatening to spill from her lips.

“My sweet, innocent Hinamori, offering herself only to me. It required some restraint on my part, I’ll admit.”

He’s doing this on purpose. He knows how delicate her resolve is.

He _knows_.

Hinamori can’t remember a time in her life when she was this wet. She shuts her legs tightly at the thought, cutting off access and forcing Aizen to draw back his hand. The wetness rubs off against her thighs, a phenomenon that does not go unnoticed by him according to his intrigued gaze. At this point, she’s vaguely aware of his hardness pressing uncomfortably against her knee. She ignores it for the sake of her own tenuous sanity.

It really is laughable. Hinamori played this scenario over and over again in her head in the space between sleep and consciousness during restless nights. She imagined him ( _her_ version of him) coming to her dead of eventide, offering a profuse apology, swearing he’d been framed by an illusionist, begging her forgiveness. Perhaps most painful is that she believed him.

He sees her herculean effort to hold back her tears and he smiles.

She looks at Tobiume.

“I want you to get on your hands and knees.”

Hinamori’s eyes widen at the realization of what’s to come.

He’s cruel — she’s long known that much. This is a different kind of cruelty.

“No,” she murmurs breathlessly. “I won’t let you—”

“Your charade is growing tired.” Aizen’s voice is cool and clipped; he’s losing his patience, a fact that only makes her tremble harder. Nevertheless, he takes her chin between his fingers and looks her in the eye, offering a small, seductively warm smile. “Your mind should be as honest as the rest of your body.”

He lets go, grabs her sides, and flips her onto her stomach. Instinctively, she draws her knees forward so she’s on all fours.

She refuses to look behind her, but the susurrus of shedding clothes is enough to make her throat feel tight.

(She could move. She could move. She could scream.)

“It’s a shame that we’re getting around to this so late. Although, it’s admittedly much more interesting now that you pretend to be so conflicted,” Aizen taunts as he takes hold of her. His cock slides against her slick cunt and, despite herself, she moans.

He spares no more time before slamming into her, ejecting the breath from her lungs and sending a shockwave of pain scattering across her abdomen and down to her fingertips. Her arousal was still no match for his ruthlessness.

She bites her lip until she tastes blood in a miserable effort to calm the sob brewing in her throat. Pleasure emerges amidst the pain as her body adjusts to his size. She can feel the thickness of his cock stretching her out — she stays perfectly still, a thin bead of cold sweat cascading down her neck.

Aizen’s fingertips bear into the subtle curve of her hips; his grip is steady, certain. He exhales, audibly restraining himself.

Slowly, he begins to thrust. Panic begins to set in, but she continues to stay still, a perfect statue.

He arches forward and buries his face in her neck, inhaling as he quickens his pace. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture — discordant and disconcerting.

“You _wound_ me when you lie, Hinamori,” he snarls into her ear. His hands trace her entire body, cold and unforgiving.

She can’t even point out his hypocrisy when air is in such short supply. The pleasant pressure pooling in her abdomen is swept away by the agony of his unrelenting pace.

This must be Hell, she decides. This is her punishment; this is what she deserves. She buries her face in the tatami beneath her and weeps.

A cry escapes Hinamori’s throat when he pulls out and abruptly thrusts again, stretching and filling her willing pussy. He’s so deep inside her — so deep that the sensation marries burning pain with a profound, ineffable pleasure.

She can’t understand — she can’t _reconcile_ — the way she wants so desperately for this to be over and wants so desperately for this to never, ever end. The self she’s carefully cultivated all these years wars with the besotted little girl she once was.

He withdraws, making a very apparent attempt to monitor his breathing, and flips her onto her back so she’s looking up at him.

(Her first thought is that the precious little moonlight filtering in from the window makes him look handsome, and she wonders if she’s the person she thought she was.)

Hinamori feels the color drain from her face when she looks down at the insides of her thighs and sees the thin coating of blood adorning them.

Her gaze snaps back up to him when she hears him speak.

“You and I are the same,” he says. “I saw that in you from the beginning. You want this, and you always have, and you always _will_ , yet you go to extraordinary lengths to conceal it from others.”

“You’re wrong,” she responds, but the hoarseness in her voice tells her that she’s fighting a losing battle.

“Am I, Hinamori? If you can tell me right now that you don’t want this, I’ll stop.”

“I don’t — I don’t...”

Words fail her.

Aizen smiles.

“And where should I finish?” he asks roughly, slowing his pace but increasing the force of his thrusts. “On your face, to remind you of your place despite your pathetic façade? Or should I cum inside you, so you can still feel me long after I leave here tonight?”

His hand wanders to the curve of her stomach.

“Here?”

It moves up to her breast, squeezing it in the process.

“Perhaps here?”

His hand continues moving upward before resting on her cheek. He traces her bottom lip, almost tenderly, before shoving his thumb in her mouth.

“Or maybe...”

This talk is unbecoming of Aizen, so uncharacteristic that for an evanescent moment she wonders if it’s really him.

Doppelgänger or not, impostor or not, her eyes flutter shut and she slides her tongue along his finger in a disgraceful bid to appease him. He exhales shakily in turn.

His rhythm grows increasingly erratic in tandem with his labored breathing. He releases his hold on her wrists to move his hands throughout her tangled hair, caressing it before gripping it mercilessly and yanking her head back.

The licentious scent of sex ( _floral and musky, mixed evenly_ ), the sound of skin slapping against skin as he pounds into her — it all exacerbates the searing sensation between her legs, the warmth of blood and her wetness mixing together.

“There’s one thing I’ve been waiting to hear tonight,” he starts. He’s losing control of his otherwise eloquent, measured diction.

She can’t bring herself to speak, so she questions him with her gaze. He obliges.

“My name.”

“Your name,” she repeats dumbly.

“Say it, Hinamori.”

Those words alone act as a spell, conjuring the part of her she was never truly able to do away with. She sees the man on top of her with old eyes as he stokes the embers of admiration and reawakens them as full-fledged flames.

His command becomes her own.

“Ai—”

“Louder. Let them hear you.”

“Aizen!”

He rewards her with an especially forceful thrust.

“Who do you belong to?”

She dares to open an eye, and her stomach churns when she sees an expression entirely foreign to her: his eyes wide and sinister with unbridled, _irrational_ lust.

His name tears through her lungs.

“Hinamori,” he groans, closing his eye in rapture. He buries himself in her to the hilt and his cock brushes against her cervix. She cries out in pain — something warm floods her inside.

Once he’s pumped the last of his cum into her, he promptly pulls out and away from her and spends a silent minute steadying his breathing. A fine sheen of sweat coats his forehead.

She lies there, feeling nothing but the unrelenting throb radiating throughout her lower abdomen. Semen seeps out of her and drips onto the tatami below.

He clothes and collects himself before rising to his feet.

“This was my final gift to you, Momo Hinamori. The world you know won’t be here tomorrow,” he says. He smooths out the tousles in his hair and looks down at what she can only assume is her ruined form.

His expression flashes with something she doesn’t quite recognize.

He’s gone in an instant.

Chest heaving, Momo Hinamori shares her bed with a single thought:

She hates who she is.


End file.
